The Point of Return
by estrafalaria103
Summary: 5X19 from Castiel's point of view.
1. Chapter 1

Castiel needs a moment after Dean's revelation. He needs a moment, so he takes it, lifting his wings out the trenchcoats irritating restraints.

He goes to his favorite place. At least, recently. The pier, sunset, all oranges, yellows, and fiery reds. A crane is wading through the water. A fish jobs. Castiel closes his eyes, and draws a long, slow breath.

He misses the feel of the amulet around his neck. One finger moves to where it was, drops below. It never felt anything but cold against his skin. Cold, he knows, is supposed to be an unpleasant sensation. Nonetheless, now he misses it.

He feels hollowed out, wonders if, in fact, there is anything currently inhabiting this vessel. Every day it empties out, and he wonders if anybody, even Samuel Winchester, could possibly imagine that this vessel is half-full. Once it was nearly bursting, with his own angelic power, with Jimmy's questions and faith, with the hum of all his brothers and sisters.

Jimmy has been silent ever since Lucifer rose.

The angels have been silent for about that long, as well.

And as for him, as for Castiel. . .his eyes open, and drink in the sunset. What is there left of him?

He ignores the little tug at the left corner of his heart, the little corner reserved always, and eternally, for his Father. He can feel, even now, that presence that he has always associated with love. He does not scoff. Angels don't scoff. He thinks that he understands Jesus a little better now.

There is a buzzing in his pocket. Castiel sighs, and fishes the phone out of his pocket. He doesn't know if he will bother answering it. It hurts, has hurt for a while, watching Dean fight a losing battle. He does not know, now that he knows even God isn't fighting, whether he can watch the man continue to lose.

But it is not Dean's name popping up on the screen. Instead, the bold letters read _Abomination_.

"Hello, Sam," He says, as he flips open the phone. He is proud. He does it in just one flick of the wrist.

"Cas, hi." Sam's voice sounds weary and exhausted. His voice sounds the way that Castiel feels. The angel waits, an interminable moment, before Lucifer's vessel finally clears his throat and continues with his message.

"It's Dean," he says finally. "I think he's done something stupid."

"That would not be unusual for Dean," Castiel points out. He considers closing the phone and returnin to the peace of the lake, but he knows that Sam will just call again. He waits.

"I think. . ." Sam clears his throat. "I just got off the phone with Lisa. You know Lisa. . .Lisa Braedon."

Of course Castiel knows Lisa. He knows every secret in Dean's heart, including the yoga instructor and his son. He knows that Dean sees her as an ideal: the insant-made family he has always wanted. Castiel does not scoff. Angels do not scoff.

"That must have been nice," Castiel says, not certain what Sam wants him to say.

"She said that he. . .he's talking suicidal. . .I think he's going to say yes."

Sam's voice breaks a little. Castiel does not feel anything. He wonders if he is finally as broken as the Winchesters.

There is a tug on the left corner of his heart. The crane cries again. Castiel feels another little piece of himself break apart. A new sensation now: worry. Angels do not worry.

"Do you know where he is?"

"Yeah, I. . .I think so," Sam says, and tells Castiel the address. The angel thanks Lucifer's vessel, and hangs up the phone. He looks at it thoughtfully a moment.

_Two roads diverged in a wood_. He can just stay here. It's not a bad option. It's not heaven, and it is a little lonely, but it is also free of war, and betrayal, and whining Winchesters. He can stay, and pretend that he knows nothing of what is going on outside. Dean will say yes, and Sam will say yes, and there will be an apocalypse. But not here, not on this eternally sunset lake.

Oranges, reds, yellows and golds. Not a single hint of green. Not one.

Castiel sighs, and unfurls his wings again.

* * *

"You got nothing, and you know it."

Dean is standing in the middle of the room, a clear glass half-filled with brown liquid in one hand. Castiel, who would not have known the drink two months ago, knows it now, is intimately acquainted with it. Whiskey. His mouth thirsts.

"You know I have to stop you," Sam says. His eyes connect with Castiel's. The angel nods. He understands.

_Bobby's Bobby's Bobby's Bobby's_

The Antichrist is almost screaming the words at him. Castiel will have to explain to him, later, that this is not necessary. He hears. He hears everything from the Winchesters.

But not now. Not from Dean. From Dean, now, there is nothing. Nothing.

"Yeah, well, you can try," Dean snots, and Castiel does not like this tone in the hunter's mouth. It sounds twisted and bitter and wrong. "Just remember, you're not all hopped up on demond blood this time."

Unfair, Castiel realized, and files it away in that compartment of his mind that keeps track of the Winchester's wrongs to one another. Unfair.

_Bobby's Bobby's Bobby's Bobby's_

"Yeah, I know," Sam says. "But I brought help."

Dean's shoulder stiffen. Castiel cocks his head, examining the man. He remembers, vaguely, a time when his hair was a touch longer, his face a bit less lined, and his shoulders far less slumped. He thinks that he misses that time. Dean turns around, and green eyes meet blue for one moment.

And finally, there is something in Dean. There is recognition, and understanding, and

_Shit, should have seen this coming_

And his two fingers reach out, unerring (angels do not err) and a stray thought lunges toward Sam until they are all in Bobby's living room.

* * *

It takes hours for the Winchesters to recover, for Sam to stop running to the bathroom with a green-tinged face and for Dean to wake up (Castiel does not admit the satisfaction he takes in putting the older hunter out for the count). He visits his pier again, wondering if he will see Dean there, but does not. He does not visit Dean's dreams. That would be one invasion too many.

There is a humming going through Bobby's rom when he returns. He wonders if the hunters hear it.

_Idgits. Don't they see what their damned tomfoolery is doing to me? Shit for brains. Damn wheelchair. Damn Winchesters. Damn you, John._

_ I need you, Dean. I can't fight this alone, I just can't_

Nothing

Castiel presses one finger to the bridge of his nose. It is getting a little louder.

Or maybe he is just reacting to the endless whining of the Winchesters plus Singer. Humans, he thinks, talk too much. That must be it. Too much talking. He sighs, and tries to focus on the conversation again.

"Every morning I look at it," Bobby is saying, and Castiel's heart screams out _lie_ but he says nothing, because he knows where Mr. Singer is going with this, and he thinks that maybe it will get through to Dean. "I think, maybe today's the day I flip the lights out."

That sounds nice, Castiel thinks. Maybe his pier would be nicer at night. Maybe there would be hints of green over the water and he will be able to stay there forever, ignore the apocalypse, ignore the tugging on his heart, ignore the Winchesters and their doomed fight. Maybe

The humming is louder now. He closes his eyes, counts to three silently, wills the screaming and the pain away.

"But I don't do it," Bobby is saying. "I _Never_ do it. You know why? Because I promised _you_ that I wouldn't give up!"

Bobby's yell combined with the high-pitched humming is too much. Castiel bends over. There is a razor hot sharp arrow running through his brain, pointing THIS WAY THIS WAY THIS WAY. He can barely hear Sam's worry Bobby's indignation Dean's nothing.

"Cas, are you okay?" It is Sam asking the question, and it should be Dean, but Dean is nothing and the arrow is glinting gold now. The screaming is louder. He thinks the sound is coming from his chest, and thinks if only angels had but one head. It is a demand, a directive, an order. Follow it. Follow.

"No," Castiel grits out. Is he answering Sam? The arrow.

"What is it?" Sam asks again, and Castiel forces his eyes open, thinking maybe, if he sees the cluttered instead of Robert Singer's sorry excuse for a living room he won't see the arrow. He is wrong.

"Something is happening," he says. He sees Sam, confused. Over his shoulder, he sees Dean. Dean's features are pinched, his eyes wide. He has one hand half-outstreched.

_Cas_.

It's not nothing. The pulsing stops a little, pauses a little, and the arrow seems gentler. Okay, Castiel thinks. Okay. He unfurls his wings, flies to the graveyard.

Crushed autumn leaves cover the green of the grass. He walks through them. They tremble. The screaming stops. The arrow fades. He watches as the leaves pulse, a heartbeat beneath them.

__

He reaches down toward the pulse, but before he can touch it he senses them. He does not hear them. He still cannot hear them, brother or not, but he senses them, and stands before they can touch him.

Two more brothers dead, he thinks in sorrow as he whirls and fights. As Sam and Dean whine and whittle away at their bonds, he is murdering his brethren. And they don't care, he thinks with something like bitterness. They don't see. How can they expect to win a battle against heaven when they don't even see?

His brother's fall, both of them. He turns back to the pulsing ground. A hand is reaching out.

_There are no flames in Hell. It is cold, bitterly cold, yet the human souls trapped below scream and writhe as though they are in fire. Castiel ignores them. He has a job to do, and even now he grips it tightly, the bright burning emerald of the soul held firmly in one hand._

_ He draws it upward toward the light, and as he does so the earth around him warms. He feels God's presence once again, and drinks it in greedily, anguished. The soul's light blinks, as though it understands him._

_ "You had better be worth this, Dean Winchester," the angel says, as he deposits the soul within a coffin. The body gasps, jerks, awakens. Castiel considers grabbing it by the shoulder, by the hand, pulling it out of the ground. He does not. He has done enough for this one human. It can find its way up alone._

_ He stays and watches, though. And so he is the only creature to see the two hands push up out of the earth, to watch the face breach the surface, eyes blink dirt and grit aside, throat open and gasp in air. He sees the broken fingernails. He sees the dusty eyelashes. He smiles_.

Castiel reaches out and clutches the hand. It is not the hand of a zombie. It is the hand of resurrection. He pulls the body out. It is trembling, gasping, barely alive and too alive. Castiel considers killing it.

But it is a Winchester brother. He can kill his own, but he cannot kill this one.

For the fourth time in a day he opens his wings and flies.

* * *

As he flies, the body burns within his arms. There is something tugging, pulling at it. Castiel twists, midflight, drags it closer. The soul burns. Bluegreenblueggreen and deathdecay. Castiel breathes through his nose, tries to pretend that he doesn't smell the stench.

Angels, he thinks. He starts. When has he started calling them angels, instead of brothers? He tightens his arms around his burden. What is a brother. . .

The body twists in his arms. It does not belong to him. The soul tries to escape, the body pulls and Castiel

He wants to drop it. He does. Wants to continue pretending that his powers are as lacking as they were before the Winchesters confronted Joshua. Has to admit that they are not, that they are back, that they came back at some unknown point while his friends (friends? Brothers) wandered through heaven. He wants to pretend. He wants to go back to his autumn lake. Instead he clenches around the fire and burning and reappears in Bobby's room.

There are three faces staring at him, but only one matters. He does not want to hold this burden any longer.

"Help," he says.

"Boys!" Bobby says, as though he needs to remind them to act, as though they are not already moving, arms reaching out, eyes and hearts wide open. Castiel hesitates. He does not want to lay this burning in their arms – not in Dean's, who has already burned for forty years, or in Sam's, who will burn for all eternity. He lays the body down on a cot. He is stronger than the Winchesters.

"Who is it?" Bobby asks.

"Thats our brother," Sam says.

Castiel loses another bit of himself as the Winchesters stare at this fallen body, ignoring the near-fallen angel standing just beside them.

Castiel sighs, closes his eyes. He does not feel bitter, that they have all this concern for a human. None for him, he thinks. As is right, he reminds himself. He is an angel. He is strongest of them. He is the protector.

Still.

Still.


	2. Chapter 2

Bobby takes it in stride, his ever-simmering anger at John Winchester justifying everything that Sam tells him. Castiel checks the pulse of the unconscious man. It is beating. Blood is pumping through the veins, the heart is working. . .human. He shakes his head.

"What a minute," Bobby says. "Your brother? Adam?"

_Family don't end at blood, boy_.

"Cas, what the hell?"

"Angels," Castiel says, and tries not to wince at the way that the word is so separate from him.

"Angels?" Sam asks. "Why?"

And if Castiel knows the answer to that, then he knows where God is, and why he's been hiding. And if Castiel knows the answer to _that_, then he also knows why he is still sitting in this cluttered, foul-smelling room instead of his pier, or in heaven with those who were once his brothers. But Castiel doesn't know the answer to that, and at the moment, with Bobby floundering in confusion, and Sam torn in two, and Dean still edging toward _nothing_ he realizes that he has very few answers indeed.

"I know one thing for sure," Castiel rasps. "We need to hide him. Now."

He does not want to touch this half-evil creature, but for the Winchesters he will. He reaches out his hand, and pulls the Enochian symbols forth, ripping another tendril of his grace and weaving it around long-dead bone. One day he will tell the Winchesters what it costs him to weave these symbols – the way that his very being aches when they are injured, or troubled, or hurt. One day he will tell them. But not now, not while he is still so much stronger.

"Where am I?"

The rip of carvings etched into ribs, the remaining essence of angel, are enough to waken the dead. Adam sits out, and his eyes are Sam's but the anger in them is all Dean's, and Castiel takes a deep breath at the beauty that he sees in them.

Oh, John Winchester, he thinks. Did you ever know you were so blessed?

Castiel notices the silence as the Winchesters begin to talk. He sounds them out, as he often does, allowing his consciousness to slide over, tethering himself only to one voice while he searches for other voices, other signs, other portents. . .

"You're going to find this a little. . .a lot crazy, but we're actually your brothers."

He cannot hear the hum anymore, and that tug from deep within his chest has disappeared. God is dormant as ever, and even Bobby's angry thoughts have calmed down to a dull roar, pushing up against his eyelids.

"Who did?"

Why would the angels want this boy, this hybrid being, half Dean, half Sam, and all untouched by their schemes? Castiel narrows his eyes, hard slits of blue and sapphire. The Winchester are still yapping like little dogs.

"How you gonna do that?"

Vessels run in a bloodline, Castiel knows that, as all angels do. He has inhabited Jimmy Novak for years now, has stepped into his daughter's skin as well. It can be done.

"What archangel?"

He also knows that the fit is off. He knows how the little girls skin felt tight, constricting, how he had to concentrate on not filtering out through pores and orifices, how he had to hold himself together inside of her.

Dean Winchesters is Michael's perfect vessel. Blood or not, this Adam can not be equal.

And yet. . .and still.

"Well, that's insane," Dean says, and it's echoing Castiel's own thoughts, but he catches the tiniest tendril of self-loathing in the thought, and

Oh, Dean

He thinks, because the human is actually feeling betrayed by this, feeling unworthy.

_What did I expect? To be special_?

Castiel doesn't know if he wants to wring the hunter's neck or comfort him, remind him, he is special, he and Sam the most special beings alive.

Instead he says,

"Not necessarily."

"How do you mean?" Dean asks, and how indeed.

"Maybe they're moving on from you, Dean," Castiel says, thinks, maybe I should, too. I would if I were smart. Back to my pier and peace.

"Well, that doesn't make sense," Dean says.

"He is John Winchester's bloodline. Sam's brother. It's not perfect, but it's possible."

He speaks the truth, because they expect it of him, and he expects it of himself. It isn't perfect, far from it. Is it possible? In theory, he thinks. But, like Sam, he doubts that the angels have just stepped away. He knows Zachariah won't have given up, can't have given up.

Angels can't give up.

And he realizes, in that moment, that he can't, either, that he is hopelessly tethered to the Winchesters and their thwarting of destiny. He cannot abandon them. He has thrown everything else away, and he has nothing without them.

"Why would they do this?

"Maybe they're desperate," Castiel says, but he means _we_. "Maybe they _wrongly_ assumed that Dean would be brave enough to withstand them."

Dean winces a little at that, and Castiel is glad. He wants, and needs, the Hunter to feel a little of the pain that he is inflicting on the angel, on Bobby, on his own brother by going through with suicide missions.

"You know what, Cas? Blow me."

And that's enough, the last disrespect, and Castiel closes down. He ignores their conversation, focuses deep within himself once more, because he is _feeling_ something again, and every time that he feels something new, that a new emotion penetrates the centuries of angel disconnect, he must examine it, must twist it over in his hands and brush his wings against it. So as the brothers plead and cajole, he examines this feeling that has rushed through him as Dean says "blow me."

It' a cold feeling, clammy. It reminds him a little of hell, frigid but raging, consuming. He can feel it against frayed nerve endings, prickling at his vessel's heart with sharp little fingers. He tugs at it, experimentally, tries not to jerk when it pulls his insides with it.

_Maybe they wrongly assumed that Dean would be brave enough to withstand them_

He sees it, clearly and crystalline, Dean's eyes wet, his lips forming the word

Yes

Castiel's world shatters, his wings molt, and his heart falls apart.

He recognizes the feeling, now, can give a name to it.

Fear.

He's afraid that Dean will say yes. He's afraid of what it will mean for him.

He put his faith in God. God betrayed him. He has transferred all of that faith –_all of it _– to the Winchesters, and if they betray him, too. . .then he has nothing. Then he is nothing.

He is terrified.

Yes.

Angels are not scared. Angels are _never_ scared. It is their greatest strength and their greatest weakness. It is the reason that Castiel was able to defeat two earlier in the day – they do not worry, they do not fear, and that self-assuredness can be used against them. Caution can win.

But it also means that they do not give up. They do not hesitate.

Yes.

Castiel stares at the tableau in front of him. As always, he is standing outside the little circle of inclusion. He is a tool to the Winchesters, a gun that will never jam (except in the face of Famine, he thinks). They are drawn together, three by blood, and one by something stronger.

Their humanity binds them.

He cannot tell them he is afraid. He is still stronger.

* * *

They have separated. Sam is watching Adam. Bobby is watching Dean. Nobody is watching Castiel, and he is watching nobody. He is still playing with his newfound emotion, unsure whether he likes it or not. But then Dean moves toward the stairs, and Bobby stares at him with something that approximates fear on his gnarled face.

For the first time, Castiel understands.

"I will follow him," he says gruffly, and Bobby nods, though the fear does not leave his eyes.

Castiel follows, wings tucked in, feet just brushing against the ground. Dean is not trying to escape, not yet. He is walking slowly, trailing his fingers along every surface. Castiel watches those fingers, the knuckles scarred white, fingernails close-clipped or broken. There is a surety in those fingers, as they follow banisters and molding toward the panic room. There is nervousness, too.

Castiel looks at his own hands. They are uncallused, smooth, soft and pink. There is no strength in them.

Dean walks into the panic room, looks around, feels how small it is, how there is no air

_I locked my own brother in here_.

As did I.

_I would do it again. God help me, I would rather lock him in here every day than have him lose to Satan_.

As would I. For different reasons, surely.

Dean is trembling a little bit. He looks like an angel escaping a vessel. Castiel draws in a sharp breath.

_I can't keep fighting alone. I can't_.

And, Castiel realizes, Dean isn't scared. Bobby is terrified, Sam is quaking, and even the angel is feeling trepidition, but not Dean. Dean isn't scared, he's just tired and worn down and out of faith. Castiel stares at him hungrily. There is the sound of a boot behind him. Dean turns, sees the angel. Stares.

Their eyes lock, for half a moment. I see you, Castiel thinks. His mouth quirks up in a smile. Dean blinks.

"Well, Cas, not for nothing, but the last time somebody looked at me like that. . .I got laid."

Castiel just keeps staring, because he _sees_, and he is enjoying the irony. That Dean is tired of not trusting his brother, and Sam is here just to cement that more. His wings twist in his back, and he almost wants to laugh. Winchesters. Dean is meeting him, stare for stare, unnerved and uncertain, but very much unafraid.

Sam is uncomfortable, though, and says, out the side of his mouth, "Uh, why don't you, uh, keep an eye on Adam?"

And Castiel goes, though he knows precisely where Adam is, knows that he is lying down, sleeping, can feel the peace in his grace, woven tightly into the boy's ribs. But he goes, because it hurts a bit to see Dean like this, and he knows the irony will be lost in tragedy if he stays longer.

He doesn't go to guard Adam, though. He goes back to his pier. Night has fallen, and the dusky autumn colors have been replaced with sapphire and dove grey. He sits in the same chair. The crane still calls out to him.

He can see why Dean like this place. It is the same reason he does, and if he could feel guilt, he would feel it, for stealing it away. He unfurls his wings, and lets them open in the slight breeze.

Sam and Dean are perturbed. He can sense this, and it makes him unhappy. When Sam is upset he has a tendency to do silly things – to believe demons and listen to devils. But when Dean is upset, he just sinks deeper into his self-loathing. Castiel sighs.

He will save the man from himself. After all, he gripped Dean tight and pulled him from perdition. . .he will not lose him now. He cannot. Because as peaceful as his lake is at night, it is still all blues and greys and not even a touch of green.

* * *

He walks to the panic room, because another one of the protections that Bobby has added toit shields it from angels. He walks to it because he wants to talk to Dean, wants to remind the hunter that he still believes in him, that they can still fight. There is a crash from within, and Castiel tilts his head. He does not know what that could be.

"Dean?" he asks. No response. "Dean?" he asks again.

He opens the eye slits, and looks in. There is no sign of the man. A sliver of that feeling – of fear – snakes through his belly again. He looks to the other side. The desk has toppled over. The lamp is smashed. The tendrils have wrapped around his heart.

Have the angels gotten in? Have they stolen Dean away, again, before they can come up with a plan? Has Dean done something himself? Castiel does not know what to think, cannot think – if he were able to think he would not open the door, would not walk in –

But Dean is somewhere beyond there, Dean, who is the _only_ one he has left, so Castiel walks in, and glances left first.

"Cas."

There are a thousand words in that one word, apology and threat and guilt and anger. Castiel has time to turn, to see red smeared on the ground, has time to scream, and the ripping that goes through him is part banishing, part betrayal, and all the green of envy and Dean's eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel is whirling in the tornado, searching calmly, methodically, for an anchor. Not so long ago he would have known where he was headed, the eddies and gusts of wind would have grown slowly warmer, more pleasant, as they approached the outer gardens of heaven. Now they twist and turn, as uncertain as he, and he can't quite open his wings within them.

He spins, tumbles, twists. It reminds him of the washing machines that Sam and Dean use to purify their clothing. It's almost comforting, this loss of control. Castiel is not foolish – he knows that he is not fighting the way that he should. He knows that his wings are not straining as they might. Sam told him once that when men reach the end of a drowning, they stop fighting. . .they welcome the heavy water. The angel thinks that he may be drowning.

His heart still aches from Dean's betrayal, and it is too much, now, the dual-betrayals, Father and Dean, Dean and Father, and who is he fighting for, anyway? So he lets himself be buffeted back and forth, lets the air scream through his ears and his eyes and his nose

Until the left corner of his heart begins screaming at him again.

_I did not raise you from the dead for you to give up_.

Father?

But the left corner of his heart does not answer. Still, Castiel has found his anchor, and realizes tha the has stopped spinning. He stands, flies, motionless, halfway between Earth and heaven.

Father? He thinks again. How dare you? When I have fought for you, how dare you ignore me?

But the heart does not answer. Castiel sighs, arcs his wings, decides that he will return to Bobby Singer's home. He doubts that Dean will be there. He is cheered by that sense of Dean's aliveness, deep in his belly. At least, in the time he has been lost, Dean, and half the world with him, have not been lost.

"OUR FATHER, WHO ART IN HEAVEN"

DEAN WINCHESTER DEAN WINCHESTER DEAN WINCHESTER

He grasps his ears, nearly falls before righting himself. He follows the screaming voice, and before he even turns to see the man who started this, he reaches out his fingers and silences the lunatic.

"You pray too loud," he says, because it is the truth, and he always tells the truth.

"What, are you crazy?"

Castiel turns to the human, and something inside him snaps. He is tired of being a weapon, tired of being a tool, tired of being ignored and swept aside and hushed up and thrown out with the garbage, and being _banished_ when it's not convenient. He's tired of the humans bandaging and bathing each other's hurts and bruises and just lying him down in a bed to heal himself. He's tired, and he's terrified for the first time in his life, and he is staring into the green eyes that caused all this exhaustion and fear and he snaps.

He grabs Dean Winchester and throws him into an alley. Hits him in the face, hard, feels bone move beneath his granite fists and he enjoys it. _Enjoys _it.

"I rebelled for this?" the angel screams. I gave up my _Father_ for you. "So that you could surrender to them?" Them again. Not us. Them. _Them_. Castiel has decided. In the end, he is a Winchester.

"Cas!" Dean chokes as he is thrown into another brick wall. Blood dribbles out of his mouth. Something inside of him is broken, Castiel can feel it. It is broken in him, too. He hits the human again, anyway. "Please!"

Dean's voice is broken, betrayed, so Castiel hits him again. Because he was betrayed, and payback is a bitch, isn't it.

"I gave everything for you," Castiel says, and even now he is only just realizing how much he has given. "Everything. And this is what you give to me."

Lies.

Failure.

Betrayal.

He kicks Dean, now, sends him flying into the gate behind. Dean falls to the ground, crumples in on himself. He spits out blood, tries to lift himself up, can't.

"Do it," the hunter growls, and Castiel considers it. It is better than letting himself give himself up to Michael. It is better than half the world dying. It is better than letting him commit the ultimate betrayal. "Just do it!" Dean screams. Castiel knots his hand into a tighter fist. It is so easy, destroying humans. They are so weak.

He is still stronger.

He is still. . .Castiel sighs, releases his hand. Dean is lying before him, broken again, and with nobody to put the peaces together. How has he let himself forget? Because, Castiel argues with himself, because Dean wants everyone to forget. Wants them all to forget the way that he was broken when his father died, put himself back together with motor oil and duct tape. How he broke further when his brother tied, but pulled out the stapler gun and screwed all the pieces together again. How he broke, shattered, _dissolved_ in hell, and even an angel couldn't put all the pieces together again.

Dean wanted them to forget. So they did.

Castiel releases his hand. Dean wants him to end it. So he does. He reaches out two fingers, places them on the hunter's head, and gives him what he most desires – peace.

The angel just wishes it could last longer.

* * * * *

Bobby and Sam are still in the living room. Castiel wonders how the humans got along before he came by – did they always just stay in one place so long, just twittering and talking to one another like little birds? Especially Sam. . .the boy could talk a log to sleep. Or something like that. Castiel can't always remember all of the euphemisms so beloved by the humans.

He staggers a little under Dean's weight. He is tired, now, so tired, with the flying back and forth, and raising of the dead, and being _banished_ (he doubts he will forget that ripping and tumbling sensation any time soon) and then the fight. . .his vessel's body is not strong, and Dean is much bigger.

"He disappeared into thin air," Bobby is saying, even as Sam comes forward with a worried look on his face. Castiel thinks it may be permanent.

"Because the angels took him," he grunts, and casts around inside himself for the telltale ache of Adam. But there is nothing. So he is no longer on earth.

"What the hell happened to him?"

_Angels or demons or. . .why wasn't I watching out for him?_

"Me," Castiel says, because he may be feeling guilt and fear and concern, and a thousand other human emotions, but he still doesn't lie. Bobby says

"What do you mean, the angels took him? You branded his ribs, didn't you?"

A warm feeling washes over Castiel. Neither Sam nor Bobby ask him why he beat Dean to within an inch of his life. Neither of them demand answers. Sam just helps lower his brother to the cot which Adam so recently vacated, and Bobby returns to the problem at hand. They trust him, Castiel thinks thankfully. Like a gun, he reminds himself. No more.

"Yes," Castiel answers Bobby's question. "Adam must have tipped them."

"How?"

"I don't know," Castiel says. "Maybe in a dream."

And a pier at sunset appears before his eyes, but he washes it aside, tries to banish little spots of light, happiness, peace. He's chosen another dream now, he thinks, as he watches Bobby watch Sam watch Dean.

He thinks he knows where the angels will have taken them – assuming that it is Zachariah who has taken the youngest Winchester. He is sure it must be Zachariah. He thinks it may be Zachariah.

He follows Sam down to the panic room before leaving. He watches as Sam handcuffs his brother to the table, sees the fingers trembling, the barely surpressed memories of demon blood and withdrawal. Sam doesn't say anything to him, just settles down in a chair to sleep and wait.

Castiel kneels beside Dean, stretches out two fingers, touches the Hunter's forehead. He is not dreaming. The angel made sure that he would not dream – dreams are dangerous, right now, and dreams are exhausting. He takes away the hurt he'd given the man, but leaves some of the pain.

Remember, he wills Dean. Remember what you mean to me, that I hurt you. Remember what you mean to Sam, that he sits up and watches you. Remember what you mean to Bobby, that he never loads his gun. Remember.

And then he unfurls his wings, thinks for the twelfth time that he should get rid of the trenchcoat, because it's just so inconvenient, and flies to California.

* * * * *

Castiel can't count the number of angels prowling the warehouse. He thinks there are five, maybe six. And then Zachariah inside. He thinks. . .I'm strong now, I'm better. But he also knows that he is tired, knows that to be strong enough they will have to wait days, a week. Knows the Winchesters won't, _can't_ wait that long, not when one of their blood is locked away inside.

He thinks about flying in, grabbing Adam, and flying out. Maybe, if he takes them by surprise. . .he stretches his wings, but they protest, cramp at the movement, and he stops. It won't do anybody any good if he just charges in and gets smote. He sighs, and flies back home.

* * *

It is still a tete a tete. Sam, apparently tired of sitting in the cold, dank panic room with the unconscious room, has joined Bobby for a sandwich and a beer. Castiel flies in and perches behind Bobby's chair. Neither man so much as bats an eyelash. They are used to him now, he realizes.

_Welcome back, wings_.

That is enough to startle Castiel. He peers at Bobby for a moment, wonders what all is going on behind the scraggly beard and trucker hat. The man just stares back at him innocently.

"Well?" Sam asks.

"The angels have Adam," Castiel says. Bobby blows out a long breath. Castiel understands. They'd been hoping it might have been something else, were hoping that Adam had just outsmarted Bobby, as unlikely as it might be.

"He's guarded?" Sam asks, and there is still the hint of hope in his words.

"At least five angels," Castiel confirms, "and Zachariah. It will be a suicide mission." Because he still will not lie.

"You can't just zap in and zap out?"

Castiel opens his mouth, shuts it, shakes his head. "No," he says. "Maybe Sam and I can. . ."

Sam shakes his head. "You know I can't take on an angel," Sam says. "Maybe if I. . ."

"That's not an option," Bobby says. Sam glares at him.

"I know that," he says. "God, can't anybody trust me?"

Bobby looks guilty. Castiel doesn't react. There is nothing to say to that. Sam sighs.

"We'll have to bring Dean," he says.

"No!" Bobby yells, and Castiel is surprised to hear himself echoing the hunter, just as loudly. Sam seems just as surprised, peering from one to the other.

"He'll say yes, kiddo, you _know_ that," Bobby says.

He'll say yes. Fear clutches around Castiel's heart again. Lips forming words, eyes dying out light, and then that overbearing presence, filling the vessel, filling the world. . .Castiel just shakes his head.

"That is not wise, Sam," he says.

"We can't do it alone," Sam says stubbornly. "And besides. . .I trust Dean. He's done this before. He's threatened to give up, to walk away. He never does. He told me. . ." Sam's breath caught in his throat, tears caught in his eyes, and he turns to Bobby. "When I walked out, before. . .before Lucifer. . .he told me that if I walked out, not to bother coming back. But he took me back, Bobby. He _took me back_."

Castiel shuts his eyes, remembers the last time he was in the green room.

_"You can take your peace, and shove it up your lily white ass. Because I'll take the pain, and guilt, I'll even take Sam as is. It's a lot better than being some Stepford bitch in Paradise! This is simple, Cas! NO more crap about being a good soldier. There is a right and a wrong here, and you know it."_

_Green blazing, skin pale, haggard, one side off the graveyard. He will not look at it. He cannot look at it. The humanity is too much. But then, a hand on the shoulder, a shouted, "Look at me! You know it! You were going to help me once, weren't you? You were going to warn me about this before they dragged you back to Bible Camp. So help me, now, please."_

_A pause, as he stares at this face, wonders again, always again, why this man, this poor, pathetic, self-loathing man would be chosen by God. But there it is, isn't it. Chosen by God. Chosen. He licks his lips, says_

_ "What would you have me do?"_

_ "Get me to Sam, we can stop this before it's too late"_

_ Weakness. Get him to the Abomination, get him to the demon-swilling, Judas betrayer. . .Castiel cannot do this, will not do this, because this is not about him, and it's not about Dean._

_ "If I do that, we will all be hunted. We'll all be killed."_

_ "If there is anything worth dying for. . .this is it "_

_ The human truly believes it. He truly does. Castiel does not know what to say to him, does not know that he wants to say anything. He is a soldier of God, not a soldier of man. He is an angel. Angels do not fear death. Dying is only a pathway to heaven, and paradise. He shakes his head. He means that this is not worth dying for, but Dean does not understand. Cannot._

_ "You spineless, soulless, son of a bitch. What do you care about dying, you're already dead. We're done."_

_ Castiel feels himself fall in that moment. Because Dean is right. Because angels are not meant to manipulate – man should have free will. His father _gave_ them free will. Castiel knows this. He tries to tell the hunter_

_ "Dean."_

_ "We're done."_

Sam may be right. Dean Winchester does have a tendency to be more bite than bark, or whatever it is that they say. But the angel does not know if he can trust this. Because, once again, things are not simple. This is not a matter of rescuing Adam Winchester. This is not a matter of Dean saying yes or not.

This is a matter of Castiel being the one held together by duct tape and super glue, and not being sure that he can stay all the way together. Because Dean is a pile of puzzle pieces, and Bobby and Sam are frantically trying to put them together. Nobody will notice when the angel's bonds fray and he falls apart.

Not until they want to use their favorite weapon, and find that it is broken.

Castiel will not let Dean Winchester walk into a fight with six angels. He cannot. Because Dean Winchester will lose, but Castiel cannot bear another loss.


	4. Chapter 4

"Where the hell are we?" Deans asks, when he's finished staggering. Castiel ignores the human weakness, and continues walking forward. He will not look behind, can't look behind him. Because he will see all that betrayal and hurt and the scream of Enochian screaming in his ears. And he will see the bruised jar, the scarred cheek and know that it was his fist causing pain. Better to walk forward.

"Van Nuys, California."

"Where's the beautiful room?" Dean asks, and that isn't how Castiel describes the room, but he understands anyway. He points at the factory.

"The beautiful room is in an abandoned muffler factory in Van Nuys, California?"

No, Castiel thinks, but where it really is, is to much for you to comprehend. He is curious, though, so he says " Where did you think it was?"

"I don't know. Jupiter? A blade of grass? Not Van Nuys."

Castiel wonders if he should explain the irony of it – "The Town that Started Right" housing the angels home. He wonders if he should explain the alternate plane of existence where the room truly exists. He wonders if

"Tell me again why you don't just grab Adam and shazam the hell out of there."

Castiel doesn't know why Sam is asking this. It adds nothing.

"Because there are at least five angels in there."

"So?" Dean asks. "You're fast."

A warm feeling worms up Castiel's spine. He squashes it flat.

"They're faster."

At least today they are, when he's been ripped in and out of dreams, banished and reappeared, fought the man he pledged to protect and brothers and died and come back a hundred times. Today they are faster. He pulls off his tie, tries to ignore the way that Dean's eyes widen at the gesture, the way that Sam glances away, his mouth tight.

"I'll clear them out," Castiel says. Is this what he means? Aren't they all supposed to go in together?

Green eyes and lips pursed to say yes.

He can't let it happen. He can't let that word be said. And if it is said. . .then he has nothing more to do, nothing more to fight for.

"You two grab the boy. This is our only chance."

Dean takes a step forward, shakes his head. "Whoa, wait. You're gonna take on five angels?"

"Yes."

"Isn't that suicide?"

Castiel sigh. How, he wants to ask, is it any different than your acquiescing to Michael? He doesn't say it, though, can't add to the guilt and weight already wearing down the hunter. Because he's an angel, and he's terrified, and he would rather face his own fear, then watch Dean fail. He'd rather die than see that.

"Maybe it is," he says, because angels always speak the truth. "But then I won't have to watch you fail. I'm sorry, but I don't have the same faith in you that Sam does."

He pulls the box cutter out of his pocket, flips open the blade.

"What the hell are you gonna do with that?" Sam asks, and his lips are still tight and disapproving but his eyes are wide. Castiel meets his gaze, until Sam blushes and looks away. When he turns, however, he meets Dean's eyes, and Dean does not look away.

"You're gonna fight angels with that?" The angle asks disbelievingly.

"No," Castiel says, and he carefully begins to unbutton his shirt. Dean raises one eyebrow. Sam coughs nervously. When the shirt is unbuttoned, the angel turns the blade toward his own chest, presses forward gently until red blossoms around the tiny blade.

"Cas, what the hell?" Sam takes a step forward, checks himself, takes a step back. Castiel idly wonders whether he could get hopped up on demon blood, as well.

"What are you doing?" Dean asks. He does not stop, as his brother does. He moves up to Castiel, reaches out and grabs the box cutter, tries to pull it away. This tiny defiance is almost enough to make the angel smile. Almost.

"You reminded me how effective the sigil is," Castiel says. "I will not have time to paint one in the factory. So I will bring it in myself."

"Oh, _gross_," Sam says, and now he completely turns away, broad back spread and tense. Dean shakes his head, and his fingers clench tighter around the box cutter.

"No," he says. "You want to fight for us, fine. But I'm not going to just watch you. . .watch you mutilate yourself."

"I will heal, Dean," Castiel says, though it is a moot point, since he doubts to come out of this alive. He doesn't know what happens to an angel banished by his own blood. He doubts that anyone knows.

"Here," Dean moves his hand, and Castiel lets him, knowing that he can still overpower the human if needed. But Dean keeps the blade pressed to skin. He takes a deep breath, and draws a line of red down the angel's chest.

Castiel is strangely touched by this gesture, by this human carving in to granite flesh. Sam is making dry retching sounds, but Castiel's eyes are trained on Dean's face, eyebrows drawn together, a single line of sweat over thin eyebrows. He is careful as he cuts the angel, methodical, and when he finished he doesn't blink or run away the sweat, just wipes the blade clean on a corner of his shirt and hands it back without a word. Castiel is careful as he buttons back up the shirt, trying to keep it away from undried blood.

He hands his tie to Dean, who folds it mutely and puts it in a pocket.

And then Castiel turns and walks to his death.

* * * * *

They are not strong, the angels that attack him. For a moment he wonders if he isn't wrong after all, if maybe this isn't the end. But there are four of them, five, and he's still so very tired. So he drops the one on the floor, and plants his feet, the way he has seen Dean do, digging in heels as though he might merge with the dirt below.

"What are you waiting for?" he asks, and realizes that he is baiting them, taunting angels. It doesn't matter. They are well-trained. "Come on," he growls, but it is as much to remind him as them.

When they are all close, when he can see the energy prickling behind their human eyes, he rips open his shirt, and presses one hand to his chest.

He has time to see them ripped away, before he feels his chest split into tiny fragments, and feels his very being come undone.

* * * * *

It isn't a tornado this time, it's a hurricane, and Castiel can feel himself being torn further and further off course. He tries to unfurl his wings, tries to catch onto one errant gust of wind, but then something hits one wing, and with a burst of pain it folds in on itself, rocks him more off-balance, and he is falling now, falling

And then the other wing is hit, and he's thrown to the other side and he thinks

Oh

This is what pain feels like

It is ripping through his body now, wind or force or betrayal or anger hitting him on every side, and he curls in deeper to himself, tries to block out the hurricane.

He wonders how humans can keep fighting when they feel this ripping burning unbearable agony. He wonders how Dean kept walking after being torn out of Hell. He wonders how Sam shrugs off being tossed bonelessly into a wall.

He is still falling, and this scares him, too. He has never fallen. Angels do not fall. But he can't move his wings anymore, and his arms flap as uselessly as any human.

He thinks he may die, and wonders if God will save him again.

The ground is rushing toward him, now, before another eddy of air grasps him by the neck and yanks him back into the hurricane. The dark forms of the other angels speed past him, headed straight toward heaven. He, of course, does not follow them, but is spun around again, and feels the breath stolen out of his chest until he gasps, pleads, begs for air that he's never noticed needing before.

The wind releases him again, and he begins to fall, but this time he has wormed one wing free, and it screams at him, screams in pain and hurt and agony AGONY, but he forces it open, because the Winchesters are still fighting, and he is a Winchester now.

But as he is sweating and straining and trying hard not to pray, the world goes white in a familiar white light.

Michael.

For the first time in his life, for the first time in centuries, Castiel feels despair. He allows his wing to stop fighting. He embraces the ground. He closes his eyes.

He wonders if Dean is sorry

_**And thar she blows. I do still have an epilogue, since Cas was present so very little in Act 5, but that, obviously, is ALL speculation!**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Thank you to all reviewers. Those were amongst the best reviews that I have received since posting here. Thoughtful, honest, and filled with content. I'm glad that you've all enjoyed the story.**_

The man wakes up with no memories. He stares at the ceiling above, and doesn't know if he's seen it before or not. He looks at his hands, and can't remember if they belong to him. He takes in a deep breath, can't remember if he's tasted this air before. He coughs, and he thinks it may be the first time that he's coughed.

As he crawls blearily awake, the sounds come to him, barely hushed voices from just beyond his door. The voices rise and fall in familiar cadences. They sound angry.

"Don't feed me that whole, it's for his own good crap. He wouldn't buy it, and neither would I!"

A nurse is leaning over in front of him. She's young and pretty. Curly hair. Amber waves of grain.

"How are you feeling today, Mr. Winchester?" she asks him. Outside the door, another shout, another raised voice.

"He's family, damn it! We. . ._I_. . .won't leave him behind."

"Do you remember anything yet?" the nurse asks him with practiced familiarity. The man wonders how many times this same scene has played over. She looks at him expectantly. He doesn't have an answer for her.

The door opens, and the arguing figures enter the room. One is tall, broad-shoulder, hair unkempt and unruly. The other is a bit shorter, with angry green eyes. They are the memory of a dream.

"Hey, Cas is awake!" the shorter one says with a false cheer in his tone. The other one is more guarded, more careful.

"How are you feeling?" he asks. The nurse smiles at him gently, lays a hand on his upper arm.

"These are your brothers," she says, and he knows that she's told him before. It should scare him, that he can't remember even these recent instances, but it doesn't. He glances at his hands again. They look so strange.

"My name isn't Winchester," he says, and he is fairly certain that it is true. The two men exchange nervous glances. The nurse does not. She just continues her vague, pretty smile as she checks his charts and IV.

"No?" she asks. "What is it, then?"

He searches through his memory, through fog and hurricane and tornado, and does not come up with an answer.

"Okay, then, Mr. Not-Winchester," she says when she has finished. She taps his arm. "You get too tired, just press that button there." She winks at the two strangers and walks out. The man watches her, and thinks that he is glad she is gone, even though he is left with these two men he doesn't know.

"Look, Cas, man," the shorter one says, and pulls his hand across his face, tightening skin and stretching out deeply line crevices. "Sam and I. . .we've got to go soon. We've got work to do."

He doesn't say anything, just watches tightly guarded emotions play out across the man's face. He can sense the effort that the stranger is making, not to fall apart. His friend is not doing as well. His eyes are wide and dewey.

"We want you to come with," the green-eyed stranger says. The man considers, but says nothing.

It is not lightly asked, he can sense, and he will not give a light answer. But while he thinks, the men grow anxious.

"He's not. . ." the taller one is more frustrated, less patient. "He's not Cas anymore, dude. No more angel mojo. He can't . . .he can't fight like he did."

"That's not why I want him coming with, Sam," the shorter man says. He rubs at his eyes this time. His hands are callused and scarred. "I just. . .if it were me in that bed, you know I'd want in on the fight. If it were you. . .we can't just leave him."

There is something left unsaid behind the words. The man wonders what those unfilled lines are saying. There is a past, and a history, and he is beginning to think that he is a part of it. He still doesn't answer.

"Maybe it's better for him," the taller one – Sam – offers. "I mean, Dean, he was exhausted, he was worn out. I think he just wanted some peace. Maybe this is his chance at peace."

"Yeah, maybe," the shorter one – Dean – says. He looks at the man, and though his face is still stoic, his eyes are bleeding. "Dude, " he says. "It's your call. You want us to wait for you, we'll wait, as long as it takes, until you're better." Sam draws in a short breath, shakes his head. Dean ignores him. "I mean, you've earned it, dealing with all our bullshit. And you want to come with, well, Sam still gets shotgun, and there's no way in hell you're sitting behind my baby's wheel, but there's a whole backseat with your name on it. And if you just want to wipe your hands of the whole deal, well, I guess we deserve that, too."

"Dean," Sam says, and there is a whining tone to his voice. "The Apocalypse. We can't really. . ."

"The Apocalypse can wait," Dean says shortly. They both turn to look at the man, now, two pairs of hazel eyes. Watching him. There is nothing remembered about this. Nothing familiar. This is wrong, he thinks, but the left side of his heart is pumping hard, telling him that it is right.

"I will come with you," he says finally. The men, the brothers, nod, and start out the door, presumably to get papers to check him out. He has one last question, or one first one. "Dean," he says, rolling the name on his tongue, trying it out. The older brother stop, hands on the doorknob.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"What is my name?"

The stoic façade cracks, crumbles, fall aparts in devastation, and shining back there is a little boy. A hint of a smile. "Cas," he says.

"Cas," The man says. He likes this name.

* * * * *

They drive for hours in the beat-up black Impala, with bad mullet rock blasting on the stereo. Sam has a lap-top out on his lap, is busy typing away. Dean is driving. And Cas. . .Cas is sitting, tall and straight in the back seat, his head turned at a ninety degree angle to watch the scenery flashing by.

They pull over at sunset. Sam leaves, stretching long legs and working kinks out of his back by reaching toward the sky. He is sent off, without complaint to "rustle up some grub" – whatever that may be. Dean turns and leans over the back of the front seat.

"Hey, Cas, can I show you something?"

They are they first words he has said since leaving the hospital. Cas nods.

They walk together, quiet again, through lightly scattered woods. There are birds singing up above. Cas knows this place. . .the ground is spongy and familiar beneath his feet. He is wearing sneakers, and he frowns. The last time. . .the last time he walked here, he wore worn, scuffed loafers.

"I owe you an apology," Dean says, and laughs a little. "But that's okay, because I think you owe me one, too. So we're even."

Cas does not understand the expression. He cocks his head, frowns, peers at the other man. "Actually," he says, "You appear to be of a slighter taller stature."

Dean stares at him for half a moment, mouth agape, and then barks a laugh. "God, Cas," he says, a claps a hand on Cas' shoulder.

They come out of the woods at that moment, to a small little pier on a sunlit lake. A crane is crying out from somewhere near to shore. The sun prisms gold, copper, bronze across the entire lake. Cas sucks in his breath. He knows this place. He remembers.

He does not tell this to the man standing beside him, though. Because, for all the returned hope and optimism on this lake and in the car, he is still not certain that he can trust the Winchesters. He is still not certain that they can win the war. He is not certain what it means that Dean is standing beside him, and not Michael in Dean's body.

"Do you recognize this place?" Dean asks, and there is something to his voice. . .something less and something more. Cas shakes his head.

"No," he says, and the lie tastes heavy and bitter on his tongue, but he is not ready, not yet, and besides, angels don't lie, but Winchester's do.

"That's okay," Dean says, and turns to walk back, muttering something about Sam and burgers. Cas takes one more moment to drink in his lake, so familiar in watercolor autumn. He turns his back to the magnificence, seeks out familiar green eyes in the gathering darkness, and follows his brother home.


End file.
